HD 'A Sign of My Astrology'
by tigersilver
Summary: Hogwarts, 8th Year. Draco is a Gemini and Harry a Leo. How much is nature and how much is nurture...and how much is written in the stars? For vaysh11, with luuuurve.


Fandom: HP  
Pairing: H/D  
Rating: NC-17  
Word Count: a Leo-sized portion 3,300!  
Summary: How much is nature and how much is nurture-and how much is written in the stars?  
Warnings: none, really. The usual AU & EWE.

For vaysh11, or playing my game with me (tho' there's a few to find yet, vaysh11 the glorious nabbed 5) and 'cause she's bloody awesome-sauce, in general. Her prompt was 'Everything's a sign of my astrology' and FYI, Draco is a Gemini and Harry is a Leo (just like me!) 

'…_a sign of my astrology'_

_For vaysh11, with luuurve_

Draco made a presentational chart, first thing. It rivaled one of Hermione's: all neon colours, with smaller charts and oblong bars that popped out and assaulted the eyes, 3D graphs and Post-It arrows here and there, showing up the highlights of contrast and comparison. Then he hid it in his school trunk.

Harry went out at first opportunity and bought the most beautiful aquamarine necklet he could find. Finally he found the _right_ one, from a little wizened Russian gentleman, who claimed the stone had been Romanoff in origin and he'd bought it off Anastasia herself in Prague. He kept it in a Shrunken box in his night table drawer in Gryffindor, waiting for the right moment.

"Fucking do that again, Potter!" Draco ordered, as they slid in a heap down the glass wall of one of the newest greenhouses, smearing it. "Exactly like that. But your cloak first—here," he pointed at the muddy tiles beneath and below them, moist from the humidity. "I don't fancy potting soil up my crack on a permanent basis. Fucking have to Scourgify myself every time we do this—nasty, that. Unacceptable conditions, Potter." He grimaced, rolling his hips where they were caught still partially under Potter's, a motion which just served to harden Harry up that much faster.

"Ponce," Harry grinned, and rolled him so that he towered atop Harry, long pale legs and arms wide and gaping like an albino grasshopper's, face flushed a translucent pink with both recently sated lust and minor indignation. "Pratty ponce. Sit, then. I'll be your ruddy blanket."

Draco stilled himself and regarded his lover.

"Will you, Potter? For how long, I wonder?" His pale brows gently gathered and his paler eyes were gone blank and cool; a draught of cold water in the tropically humid atmosphere.

"Till the cows come home, Draco," Harry smiled easily, and slid his vibrant gaze to Draco's mouth, red and moist and pinched, at the moment. "Till the stars fall."

"Pfft! Wanker!"

Draco, wriggling again, occupied with spelling more lube for the stroking of Harry's cock, wasn't looking all that deeply for any silent messages. He folded himself up properly so he could kneel triumphantly over his conquest and palmed his willing captive's dick into upstanding rigidity.

They shagged a second time in a half hour's space, and the saline-tinted moisture dripped down the glass walls in rivulets.

Draco had laid a bet with Zabini it'd be well over before they finally exited Hogwarts, NEWTS safely stashed under their collective belts. A hundred Galleons it was, and Draco thought it was money well wagered. He couldn't see it continuing, honestly: they were far too different in world-views to make a go of it. Besides, Draco had plans to see that same world and make something of himself elsewhere and Potter was planning to stay planted at Hogwarts and be terribly dull, like Longbottom.

Harry, in cahoots with WWW (i.e. himself and George), made quiet arrangements to explore various possibilities for new shops after graduation, as part of their global expansion concept, and said not a bleeding word to Draco about the likelihood of his being in Zurich the following July and then Sydney in the September thereafter. He was a wily bloke and decided he'd save that gen, for ammo, as needed. If needed.

"Get off, will you?" Draco protested irritably, shrugging at him. "It's too—Parkinson's right _there_, Potter, if you catch my drift."

"So? And?"

"You're a pestilence, Potter. I don't want to shag now; I've a team to coach to Cup, and you're in my way. Catch me later—if you can."

The brief flash in the placid lake of algae green wasn't there long enough to be read easily, even with an Aurorscope. Barely a scraplet of memory; there was only a tiny part of Draco's ever-roving brain that even caught it. And he didn't waste time mulling over it, either.

"Sorry," Harry grinned and nipped the clean line of jawbone rising imperiously above him smartly, which of course said loud and clear just the opposite. "Under the bleachers then; after practise, yeah?"

Draco regarded him coldly, having stepped back out of the alcove that was entirely too near to the Great Hall to be comfortable. "Maybe. If I feel like it, Potter. Bring lube, though."

He swung his wide shoulders away and successfully swallowed the smirking grin of triumph (Potter wanting him that much! That much!) that tried to force its way onto his reddened, dampened lips. Managed to make it all the way back to his Head Boy room in the dungeons before it took his face over completely.

Forced himself not to remember Potter's parting words: "Are you frightened, Draco? Finally?"

Pans could care less who Draco was shagging for recreation; if anything, she approved of Potter and thought it a great coup for what remained of Slytherin. Zabini simply smiled Sphinx-like and waved a shiny-bright Galleon under his nose now and then, but Draco wasn't paying attention. His father had been released from Azkaban, proclaiming himself rehabilitated. His mother had returned from southern France. Things were looking bright on the Malfoy horizon.

Harry made another hundred thousand Galleons over the course of October. WWW's products sold well to a populace too long deprived of anything resembling amusement. All the world was downing Canary Creams and buying Moats for their torn-up front lawns as a fine joke upon their hapless neighbors. All the world purchased costumes for Hallowe'en from WWW's new line. The Dementor one was especially popular. People were a bloody strange lot, Harry decided, and watched Draco's delicate flirting with the other Eight Years and new profs (all male, oddly enough), safe in the knowledge his tell-tale Tattling Trace hadn't been notised, much less tampered with. The war had taught him far too much about agendas—hidden or otherwise-and Harry, though passionate and quick-tempered, was no longer to be reckoned any sort of blinkered fool.

"Like it?" Draco sparkled, elegantly. His Muggle-styled tux was tailored from the same type of fabric as Harry's Cloak, with a Charm laid on so he could turn its attributes off and on at will. Currently they were 'off' and he looked a fucking treat. Or so his mirror swooned.

"S'nice," Harry grunted, eyeing him up and down when he emerged from the Head Boy's private loo, all spiffed, his lint-fine hair carefully styled to fall rakishly over one smouldering pewter eye. "Do your pants show through when it Disappears, then? Wouldn't want the expensive merchandise to be picked over."

"Fucktard," Draco snarled. His smile disappeared instantly and Harry was treated to _sullen_ in spades. Harry shut his eyes, closing out the sight of Draco's blacker-than-black scowl, and held his breath for a half a second, concentrating.

"There," he announced to Draco's turned-quizzical glare. "Now I can see your skivvies all the time—nice view, by the way."

"Prick! Shiting perv!" Draco retorted, scowling and glancing down at his apparently immaculate suiting. He narrowed his own, mumbling inaudibly, and then grinned maliciously at his lover, striking a studied pose against the lav's doorframe. "Guess what, Potter?"

Harry lifted brows in so-agreeable inquiry, faintly mocking. "What, ducks? Issues we've not yet addressed to your satisfaction?"

Draco glared at him, quick enmity written all over his mobile features. It was never far below the surface, even now.

"Hardly," he sneered, snapping his fingers to finish off his casting and following that up with a two-fingered salute. "There. Now there's a few other Seventh and Eighth Year worthies who'll be treated to a nice eyeful of my silk-clad bum. Gag themselves miserable over it, too, I shouldn't wonder. You're not the only decent shag to be had within the crumbling halls of Hogwarts, Potter—keep that in mind, won't you?"

"…Really?"

"Really, really."

Harry's turn to narrow his eyes dangerously, but a mercurial Draco was already well past the matter of visible undies and momentary revenge and on to something else, completely different. "Oy, Potter," he remarked not a moment later, scooping up his formal evening over-robe with nimble fingers, "d'you think they've catered it this time? With the elves as they are, I rather fear for our tastebuds. Watch it be a total disaster-all those little Muggle snausages in puff pastry and celery sticks with sardine cream. We'll have to make tracks for Hogsmeade and throw ourselves on Madame's mercy, I daresay."

Harry shrugged, allowing whatever it was that had bothered him so briefly to flit off. "Maybe. Come on—need to shove off now or we'll be late making your grand appearance, Malfoy."

"True!" Draco's eyes lit up with anticipation. "_Witch Weekly's _scheduled to make an appearance, aren't they? That'll be the third cover for me in as many months. I'm well on my way, am I not?" He snorted his glee at the promise of free publicity and did a short turn before the mirror, admiring the flow and snap of his new evening cape.

"Yes," Harry mock-growled, catching Draco's hand and tugging impatiently. "Come on, Cover Boy—shift that beautiful arse of yours, won't you? I want a good table this time. "

"Tell me that's not behind the punchbowl, Potter—please. I've had more than enough of your scurrilous hiding. No one's that camera-shy; it's unnatural."

Over Christmas hols, Draco upped his wager with Blaise by another hundred Galleons and made sure to be seen on the arm of Viktor Krum as well as on Potter's. The _Prophet_ was all over it, like flies to a carcass, and Draco exulted—just a bit—when Harry scowled at him blackly and sulked for a solid two days after New Year's. But Harry had done a bunk of his own for the last half of the fortnight they'd been off for Christmas and Draco hadn't seen hide nor hair of him in all that time, nor received any reasonable sort of explanation for his boyfriend 's disappearing act when he finally deigned to put in an appearane. So, he assured himself he didn't give a hoot about some ruddy old Saviour-type and allowed Krum to suck him off at a glitzy new adults-only dance club in the newly rebuilt Knockturn.

This was not as satisfying as it could've been, however.

Harry, having gotten over with alacrity what he conceived of as his duty to the Burrow, the Ministry and the press, making appearances and shaking the hands of babies and dignitaries, popped off undetected to the Netherlands; to Wizarding Amsterdam, actually, and made some inquiries and few snap decisions. WWW business concluded, he Apparated back to Hogwarts, which gracefully allowed him the honour. There were certain side benefits to being a 'ruddy old Saviour-type'.

Valentine's arrived and he and Potter were still an item. Draco privately marvelled at this, though he wasn't counting any dragonette hatchlings before their time. Had several baskets lined up, metaphorically—just in case. Krum, for one, had taken to writing him long, newsy Owls, inviting him to professional Quidditch matches all over the globe and enclosing complimentary box seats in the VIP sections. Father, in full frontal assault mode on the negative PR the Malfoy name had accumulated, had meanwhile lined up any number of suitable Witches (Pure _and_ Mixed, and wasn't the latter option a bleeding wonder!) for marital consideration, and Blaise—well, Blaise had intimated subtly he might possibly be interested in resuming the mutually agreeable arrangement they'd enjoyed Fifth Year.

"Ngh! Nnnnn," Draco groaned, Potter up on his tippytoes behind him in the Prefect's Bathroom, fucking him dry and fast. Not so dry, really. More sloppy seconds, and Draco wasn't complaining. "Merlin! Deeper, Harry—go deeper. I can take it," he begged. "Fucking please!"

"Bloody well right you can, arsehole!" Harry growled.

Potter conjured a footstool—bloody show-off—and obliged, till Draco was literally clawing the tile and in serious danger of harming his cock on the grout. A palm cupping him prevented potential chafing and they both got off seconds after; Harry first, slumping forward and still gamely pumping Draco's dick, Draco falling back onto him in the certain knowledge his buckling knees would be steadied and himself supported. Potter had always been far stronger than he ever seemed to be, the scrawny git.

Harry received a box of fancy chocs from Paris by Owl that Valentine's Day morning: heart-shaped ones, full of brandy-laced cherry cordial, each with a letter on in white chocolate cursive. He spelled out the message across his pancake-syrupy plate and smiled like a bloody two-year old kid over a brand-new teddy bear, glancing up to catch Draco's eye and grin across the length of the Great Hall like a certifiable loon.

"Me, too," he mouthed silently, and the Weasley prat stuck a forefinger halfway down his own throat and made vomiting noises. Draco saw that quite clearly and was suitable repulsed, though he couldn't hear the sound effects properly over the quiet tumult of teenagers in love. Blaise nudged him hard and pointed, grinning, when a humongous red pasteboard card twinkled into existence in his bowl of porridge and began warbling some trite tripe about true love. It was quite the soppiest thing ever, musical cherubs—worthy of Daphne—but Draco still flushed a bit over the message and averted his eyes from Harry's.

Baskets, he reminded himself. Right. Things to do, places to go. This was a lark—shagging was good; positive PR was better—nothing more. Nothing to count on. Nothing he wanted to count on.

"Going to Zurich," Harry announced casually, just before Easter break. "Wanna go with, Draco?"

"Yes," Draco replied promptly, without thinking at all. "Er—I suppose," he added, much more doubtful. He'd plans to hook up with Krum, and his parents were pressing him about various things, like NEWTS and ensuring succession, but—but. Zurich sounded a blast; he'd never been and why not? Time to take a real holiday anyway and Harry—Potter—was always a good time, what with his infernal goofiness and carryings on. Amusing git…for a Gryffindor.

"Sure, yes, I'll go with," he finished, casting his well laid out plans to the winds of chance. "Sounds alright."

"Where were you last New Year's, Potter?" Draco asked, casually of course, as it really didn't matter to Draco one way or another. "You up and Vanished at the end there. Was going to hunt you down at midnight on the Eve, but you couldn't be found."

He surveyed the view of the Lindenhof from their terrace and carefully unraveled another _pain du chocolat_, nibbling at the buttery flakes of pastry. Harry—Potter, damn it!—took a sip of his espresso and smiled benignly.

"Business," he replied simply. "I want to do the Polybahn Funicular. Shall we?"

"Oh…" Draco hesitated. They'd been out till three dancing at T&M and he was a little hung-over still, complimentary hotel Pepper-Ups or no. "Alright, Harry. If we must," he sighed, making much of dragging his weary self out of his wrought-iron chair.

Harry grinned at him, entirely sprightly and full of disgustingly cheery good spirits. "Knew I could count on you, Draco. The unwilling tourist, you are. Mister Wet Blanket."

"You've dragged me all over the map since we started this jaunt, Harry," Draco snapped back, "like bloody luggage. What did you expect?"

"Not much," Harry said, after a tiny pause, and Draco froze solid for a half-second before he moved back into the room to gather up his jacket and wand. He bought Harry a pocketwatch later that same day at Gübelin on Bahnhofstrasse and had it inscribed: _You are the axis of my days. Love, DM_. It sported a rampant lion on its casing, with a peridot eye. Draco quite liked it, and the sentiment, as well—which, though it might be a bit much for what was only a very long fling, was still true enough—for the moment.

"Well…see you, Harry," Draco said, one sunny morning in mid-June. He looked at his feet, clad in non-regulation loafers, and noticed a scuff. Almost as if he'd been dragging his heels, though he should've been wanting madly only to shake the dust of Hogwarts from them. "Erm, best regards and all that. Take good care of yourself."

Harry smiled up at him from his perch on his battered school trunk, entirely unfazed that Draco was leaving for an extended tour of the Malfoy's international holdings the morning following this one. His parents had arranged it—their way of preparing to hand over the reins, really—and he was to meet up with Krum and a few old Slytherin alumni along the way. The opportunities for stumbling across Potter by sheer chance would be few and far between.

"Yeah, thanks," Harry chirped. "You, too, Draco. Say hullo to Viktor for me when you see him in Oslo. Tell him I send my fondest regards." His eyes glittered very green over the request and Draco caught his breath sharply. He didn't fancy surprises—not these days. And he didn't appreciate heapings of undeserved guilt poured down upon his fair head, either.

Almost entirely undeserved, that is.

"What does that mean, Harry?" he demanded, immediately irked. "What are you saying?"

"Nothing," Harry returned, gaining his feet and busying himself with levitating his various bits-and-pieces. "Not a thing. Why?"

"You!" Draco gathered a furious breath, fuming intensely, began and—halted, the angry accusations piling unspoken behind his snapping teeth. Stopped altogether, for what was there to say? So he'd been caught out, just a bit, and by whom? Potter? Potter, who'd never returned the favour of the watch, nor presented Draco with anything more substantial than his cock, primed and at the ready—or a flimsy card awash with glitter or—or the occasion sweet, after a trip to Hogsmeade, for Merlin's sake! Candy!

"Nothing!" he huffed, turning away on his heel, his own trunk already Shrunken and tucked away in his robe pocket and nothing—not a single bloody thing!—left still Hogwarts that he need concern himself about.

"Harry!"

And spun back, reversing himself as surely as the flow of the Nile against the mind's eye. He stuck his hand out, left it to drift down slowly upon Harry's shoulder blade—thin, sharp, quick as the rest of him, Draco decided inconsequentially. There was no part of him that could bear not to see the flex of it under his fingers, nor know the layer of muscle beneath it, rippling as it twisted.

He gripped, and Harry finally turned his own head to the side, raising his chin high enough that he might meet Draco's urgent stare directly. They regarded each other for a long moment, and the Express's whistle blasted in shrill warning, rolling over the bustle of tremendously excited young Witches and Wizards preparing to depart the shallows of the schoolyard for the final time. A long and immeasurable time—eight years in the making, this view of Harry. Half Draco's life, and certainly the majority of what he could remember of it.

"Harry."

Draco repeated it, loath not to. He'd grown used to sound of it rolling off his tongue. His mental baskets could be adjusted, couldn't it? The family holdings would still be there next month, same as always; dragonettes were passing fond of company, he'd heard tell—Krum was a very nice chap with an extremely fine arse, but Harry—was Harry.

"Wanna go to Sydney next?" Harry asked equably, apropos of nothing, his tone infinitely light and also clearly expecting of nothing, and very casually allowed his hand to rest over Draco's where it lay upon him, both sets of fingertips gradually tightening. "Seeing as you're all packed up and ready to go?"

"The ever-unwilling tourist, right?" Draco chuckled. He nodded, hair falling into his eyes, the strident shriek of the train whistle finally penetrating his focused attention. "And, speaking of, Mister Wet Blanket says to you—we should go now. We'll miss the train if we don't bustle. That wouldn't do, would it?"

"No."

Harry nodded, his trunk neatly and efficiently bundling itself up to pocket handkerchief-size, even as he watched Draco enquiringly, his widened eyes never budging from Draco's steady, assessing gaze.

Draco took possession Harry's arm firmly; folded his own over it, just as they did when they were strolling Diagon or Hogsmeade or the corridors of Hogwarts.

"And sure, why ever not go to Sydney? I'm easy enough, now. Nothing on the books just yet, really; not to speak of," he returned evenly, taking that first crucial step in moving along, beyond—just beyond. What point of reference exactly, Draco wasn't all too clear, this moment. Looked as though Potter wasn't planning on aping Longbottom, though, didn't it? Which was news to _him_, at least. Could sort the rest out later…much later.

And certainly Potter never did cease to surprise him. A good thing, what? Boded well for would-be travelling companions.

"Always wanted to see more of the Southern Hemisphere, actually," he remarked. "Mercury's rising this month, you know?" he added, in his 'chatty' voice, the one he used to relate gossip, and went on to tell Harry all about the constellations viewable only in the Great Down Under. Such conversational trivia kept them occupied the entire journey back to Platform 9 ¾'s—that, and shagging, and chasing a huge lot of escaped chocolate frogs 'round the confines of their locked and heavily warded private compartment.

Finite


End file.
